


A Charming Domestic Scene

by corvidae9



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beer, M/M, Sports, cursing, smirking, terrible essays from firsties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-10
Updated: 2006-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29459652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidae9/pseuds/corvidae9
Summary: Quidditch on the wireless,  Saturday afternoon. (post-War Harry/Draco)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 3





	A Charming Domestic Scene

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for nightfalltwen, based on her need to see if I could make H/D happen while still just being guys doing guy stuff. Mission accomplished! *salutes*

Harry sat in one corner of the plush sofa, an unassuming piece of furniture that looked nowhere near as comfortable as it really was, bottle of stout in hand as the wireless broadcasted the afternoon Quidditch match a little more loudly than usual.

Puddlemere at Appleby - currently the score was 10-0 in favor of Appleby, but Harry was unconcerned. Puddlemere was clearly the superior team, Oliver Wood was Keeping and the match was young. Better still, he had nothing to do this afternoon but mark essays and listen to the game.

Truly, weekends were the best sort of magic.

Making notes on a first year's Defense essay (no, Trolls were not bred by the Ministry in response to poor NEWT scores in 1805, and no _The Quibbler_ was not a good source for such information), he didn't notice as the shower shut off. His attention was divided neatly between the wireless and his Red Pen of Doom (though granted, not nearly as doomful as that of Professor Snape), and that's all he could keep track of at the moment.

Fifteen minutes later, he moved on to the next essay, distracted by the teams fighting for possession of the Quaffle, he finally looked up to find Draco standing in front of him, eyebrow cocked, holding out another bottle to replace the one that was now near empty.

"Match that good?"

Harry grinned and tossed the last of his drink and set the bottle aside, taking the fresh one with a murmured thanks. "Yeah, it's pretty close; When the Chasers do manage anything, Keepers are doing a brilliant job of stopping it. It'll come down to the Seekers, easy." Looking up again, his gaze was momentarily riveted by Draco's hipbones just barely poking over the top of a low-slung pair of very expensive (he guessed) trousers designed entirely for lounging about on days such as this. That is, until the announcer shouted a goal for Puddlemere and Harry suddenly pumped a fist in the air and exclaimed, "Yes!"

Taking the newspaper from under his arm, Draco snorted as he snapped it open and took a sip from his own bottle. "There's news." He took a seat at the other end of the sofa and pulled his feet up, stretching his legs out to settle one heel pointedly on the pile of essays on Harry's lap, the other foot close behind.

Looking up unamused, Harry cleared his thoat.

Pointedly _not_ looking up, Draco waved unconcerned with the hand holding the pen. "Don't mind me. Just here for the game. Go about your business, Professor Potter."

With a low growl, Harry tugged the pile of parchment out from Draco's foot and shifted them closer to the armrest of the sofa, returning his attention to how exactly the Tarantallegra curse had not originated as an effective weight loss method (No, Mr. Frond, it is never ok to "hex someone for their own health"), nevertheless, his free hand came to rest on Draco's shin, absently petting his leg as he resumed the marking.

Appleby's star chaser, Ryan, took possession of the Quaffle and zoomed straight for the goals, evading the bludgers with 'the speed and accuracy of his team's namesake' according to the WWN commentator. Harry looked up at the wireless set, regardless of the fact that there was nothing to see except the polished wood facade. Rolling his eyes, he swore as the little bastard managed to sink a goal, even as Draco murmured, "Oh yes. Puddlemere is so outmatched," and turned the page, unconcerned.

"Bollocks. Appleby's Seeker is is nowhere near as fast. Puddlemere's got this one in the bag, mark my words." Harry was impressed-- he had certainly sounded more sure than he was at the moment.

"MmHmm." Unphased, Draco meticulously filled in yet another set of tiny boxes. "Potter. Eight-letter word for one who pulls frequently."

Harry stared at him, eyes narrow. "Wanker."

"Right. Lothario. Good call."

###

"Potter. Ten-letter word for--?"

Harry cut him off before he even finished with a testy, "How the hell should I know?" He was clearly annoyed-- mostly due to the fact that the Puddlemere Seeker had so damn nearly caught the Snitch not two minutes ago in a game that had been tied for the last half-hour, but broke away at the last moment dodging a Bludger and the rapidly-approaching turf.

Smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, Draco arched an eyebrow over the top of the paper. " _Reading_ , for one. Possibly attempting to possess a vocabulary outside of 'wanker', 'piss off' and 'bloody hell' for another. Honestly, just because you've been adopted by Weasleys doesn't mean you have to sound like one."

"Oh for fucks sake, don't go there," Harry groaned as he tossed the tightly clipped stack of first year essays off of his lap and moved on to the second year work.

"Shh. You'll miss Puddlemere being trounced. And you would have known this one, I'm sure."

"Wan-- grrr..." Stopping himself by draining the last of his stout, Harry exhaled hard and looked up at the patterned ceiling. Tongue in cheek, he tried to see the humour in the situation. "Alright. Give it."

"Ten letter word for coolly unconcerned or indifferent."

With a snort, Harry returned his attention to the stack of parchment in his lap. "Draco Malfoy. How many's that?"

"Eleven. And it's 'Nonchalant'." Draco resumed writing. "Absolutely brilliant, you are."

Harry muttered, amused, "You seem to think so."

Gesturing vaguely toward the wireless, Draco replied, "Shh. Trouncing."

###

"Malfoy. Did you know that grindylows -and I quote- 'are obviously a race of misunderstood creatures of the deep, capable of advanced math and logic as evidenced by the scar patterns on my uncle Robert's calves'?"

Draco dropped the paper, narrowing his eyes at Harry. "What the hell are you teaching these children, Potter?"

Shaking his head, Harry threw his hands up. "That's what I want to know!"

Pointing accusingly at the parchment, Draco smirked. "Appalling." Standing, he walked away without giving Harry a chance to respond, holding a negligent hand out for the empty bottles that were now floating lazily into his hand.

Harry watched him as he walked away, mouth pressed into a tight line. he didn't have to rise to it, not at all. He was going to, yeah, but he didn't have to; as long as that much was clear, he'd poke right back at Draco all he wanted.

It didn't matter that there was more stout in Draco's hand as he sauntered back, not at all that he was wearing that one expression that tended to make Harry--

"Wait, what?" Harry's attention was suddenly riveted back on the wireless as the Seekers were spotted in a dead heat near the level of the game 'ceiling', the score 40-20, Puddlemere. Draco slowed as he re-entered the sitting room, holding the second bottle out distractedly, not far enough that Harry could reach it. Perfectly fine as it turned out, since the only thing on Harry's mind at the moment was the fact that the Seekers were now in a dive surrounded by all four Beaters circling and weaving, smashing the Bludgers back and forth around them. The crowd noise in the background soared, and Harry sat forward, muttering unconsciously, "Come on! Come on!"

Draco dropped the hand holding the extra bottle to his side and took a huge drink from his own, the fact that he was facing the wireless the only outward sign he was paying just as close attention as Harry.

The Seekers were apparently jostling one another on the edge of violence and both Harry and Draco smirked for obvious reasons.

The commentator's voice rose to a deafening pitch along with the roaring crowd, calling one Seeker's name and then the other as they constantly overtook one another until the commentator shouted above the screaming crowd, "Witherow's done it! Final score 170-40 Appleby! The Arrows win!"

Harry slumped, kicking the nearest stack of parchment. "Oh well, fuck."

Smug beyond belief, Draco grinned and raised his bottle toward the wireless. "That's right. We should have laid a wager on it."

With a dark look, Harry jabbed his finger at Draco, as if it was his fault. "Moreover! What the hell are you on about? You were cheering for Puddlemere just last weekend!"

Draco closed the distance between then and sat on the armrest of the sofa nearest Harry, offering the extra bottle again. "They were playing the _Cannons_ for godsake. Couldn't very well let Weasley get the upper hand." Taking a thoughtful sip, he added, "And Puddlemere won, too. They're not bad... but you know, I think I _did_ do it." He nodded decisively. "Yes. That's it. It's definitely me."

Taking the proffered bottle more roughly than he needed to, Harry took a drink, interrupted at Draco's impressive display of egotism. Amused despite himself, his arm snaked around Draco's waist and tugged him closer. "Smug bastard."

Using the momentum to slide directly onto Harry's lap, ignoring his 'oof', Draco held his bottle out slightly. "Too right. Cheers."

Harry's only response was another dark look.

"What?" Clinking his bottle to Harry's, Draco sounded rather put out, but the amusement in his eyes told a different story. "Isn't as if I won't make it up to you."


End file.
